Lemon Pie in Zaïre

Further in, the darkness is absolute.

Fronds and furtive things unfurl while forest

palms and fingered trees press tip and taproot

down through decomposing leaves and drenching mist.

This is where the good things go to die.  Light

and air, pools and palaces, sanity

of men and kings—all rot away, while night

brings rumbling forest drums that cry vanité!

vanité! tous n’est ce que vanité!

But, creeping further in, she finds a tree

ablaze with fragrant lemon-yellow suns,

and, picking four of the brightest ripest ones,

takes yard eggs, flour, fruit of the citronnier

and bakes a tarte au citron meringuée.